


Red, White, and Pink All Over

by Saffroncremebrulee



Series: If Ever Two Were One [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-08-10 22:01:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7862788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saffroncremebrulee/pseuds/Saffroncremebrulee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's long since made peace with the fact that the feeling's her, not the booze. Qrow x Winter drabbles. Rated for language, references to drinking, and mature themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baby, This is What You Came For

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY. This is a work of fanfiction.
> 
> Welp. I don't think I've ever fallen so hard for a ship. 
> 
> Background Music: "This Is What You Came For" by Calvin Harris, featuring Rihanna
> 
> I don't own the song, either. Merely borrowing a pertinent lyric, because, well, we all know what Qrow came for, right?

                                                              "Hey!...I'm talkin' to you, _Ice Queen_."

                                                             Qrow, to Winter, _It's Brawl In The Family_

 

He's always wondered why he liked pissing her off so much.

 

Maybe it's the faint flush of crimson on ivory skin, the pale narrowing of cerulean eyes (to him, anyways, because he's memorized every minutiae of detail on that face, even better than she knew), and that curving, curious smile every time she swings a retort, glare, or sword at him. Maybe it's the fact that he one, took the time to learn what pissed her off the most was annoying; two, purposefully engaged in said actions for that purpose was irritating; three, continued to do so even as she struggled to maintain some type of control was exquisitely entertaining. After all, it only took a little to set her off. A jab about old Ironwood here, an irreverent disregard of the military there, and presto- one angry, passionate, and hot as hell Winter Schnee, lunging through the air, words and glyphs aiming for his heart, just like she is in at the bottom of every dream, flask, and bottle.

 

(He's long made peace with the fact that the feeling's _her_ , not the booze, however much he liked to pretend otherwise.)

 

If you ask Winter, though, she'll say (no, wai...wait, she would ex-pli-cate, emphasis on the _-kate_ , because that's a long and eloquent and Winter-y kind of word) that he pisses her off purely for the hell of it, just because he can. That wasn't completely true; not entirely, anyways. True, the hot as hell was there. That was the heaven of it, too, not that he called it so to her face. She knows his intentions as she knows every plane of his face. It's the faint flickering of electricity beneath vermillion eyes, the bare hint of emotions whizzing through the air, and the tingle of goosebumps every time he teases, parries, and blocks. Qrow doesn't even have to try. He just _is_ and all she wants is to bend him to her will, insofar as a man like Qrow would be willing to bend for an absurd amount of bending in return.

 

(She's nearly as poised around _him_ as she is around everyone else.)

 

Maybe that's why he likes pissing her off so much.

 

(But only at himself, though.

 

_Only_ him.)


	2. We Belong Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter thinks about the rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY. This is a work of fanfiction for entertainment, not profit. Explicit language.

They're as different as can be, at least on the outside.

He's a drunkard- _perpetually so_ \- not giving a fuck about appearances unless said fuck happened to reside in the bottom of a bottle. She's a teetotaler- _obsessively so_ \- always giving a fuck about propriety unless that complete and utter _fuckard_ happened to pick a fight in the middle of a crowded courtyard full of would-be hunters and their superiors, of all people.

He acts like he doesn't care about how it all looks for both of them, but that wink in Ozpin's office says it all. He does care; he just has a brilliant yet _stupid_ way of showing it. She resists the urge to stomp a little harder on his foot on the way out. The elevator smells like him- one continuous regret of broken dreams- and as it descends to the first floor, the air becomes an stifling mix of crushed petals and tears.

Always together (in their hearts).

Forever apart (in their lives).

Isn't that how that the saying goes?

( _No_?

Are you sure?)

He's a rebel who breaks every single rule she'd give her life to uphold. Halfway through a rare bottle of scotch later that night, she wonders if she's always broken his heart as much as he's always broken hers. Hadn't wanted her to become a specialist, for one. Maneuvered Ironwood and Father to give her to paper-pushing jobs away from critical missions. ("Only the best for a Schnee," as if _that_ was a compliment instead of a cleverly disguised cop-out.) Instigated a fight solely to embarrass her, her boss, and her kingdom when she finally wrangled her way into a meaningful, if still supervisory, assignment, albeit with a full protective detail...which he promptly dismantled in front of witnesses in broad daylight just to prove how useless they were. Even got her kicked out of a meeting about an even bigger threat he still refuses to tell her about even after showing up outside her airship, simultaneously apologetic yet strangely proud as he drains the rest of the scotch.

The only real danger she can see is this "the less you know, the better" bullshit. All to protect her, like she doesn't have a brain or ears or a pair of eyes or the courage to do what needed to be done, to pay the price, if need be. She wouldn't have chosen this career if she wasn't prepared for all the eventualities. (Father had Weiss, who had Ruby, Yang, and Blake. They'll all be alright if anything happened; she's not going to be, though, if all she does is wait to hear about events after the fact.) She wanted to be on the ground where she was needed, and all he wanted was to keep her safe, even if it cost him _her_.

"I can't lose you, Winter."

"So you risk yourself, Qrow?"

(Well... _fuck_.

They're the same on the inside, aren't they?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration: "We Belong Together" by Mariah Carey
> 
> Hello, hype for Vol. 4, and hello, all the feels. 
> 
> (This weird little chapter practically wrote itself.)


	3. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qrow receives a house call from James. Implied character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY. This is fanfiction. Pure entertainment.
> 
> Inspiration: "Stay" by Rihanna ft. Mikky Ekko, the line "It's not much of a life you're living"

Qrow hadn't expected James to deliver the news personally.

Not with an army to run and a kingdom to protect (much good either of those ever did _her_ ), yet there was no mistaking that rigid posture and militaristic mien outside the door of this dingy, run-down apartment. Only James had the unique gift of making every interaction feel like a funeral procession, even one as mundane as pressing the doorbell. Except there was a gravelly quality to James' voice now, the rum-soaked, whiskey-marinated kind mingled with an undercurrent of grief, the kind that made Qrow's heart collapse as soon as he realized why James was here.

Somehow, Qrow had never expected to be on the receiving end of _this_ kind of house call. Even in his soberest nightmares, it was _Oz_ stepping through the door, _Oz_  with a catch in his throat, _Oz_ delivering the news to Tai, Yang, Rubes, and Winter. Never once was it _James_ who stepped over the threshold, _James_  who closed the door a little too gently, and _James_ who burned the last vestiges of hope into ashes with two broken, spine-shattering words.

One hand- the robotic one- was suspiciously steady as it presented a sterile white envelope. Qrow knew without looking that the Atlesian military logo was on one side and the Schnee company logo was on the other. A single sheet of stationary was in between; delicate, looping calligraphy, beautiful swirls and whirls done in a steady hand the day she signed her life away as a Special Operative.

(It still smelled like her, too. Faint, powdery puffs of pale blue irises lying in a coppery pool of freshly fallen snow.)

Qrow closed his eyes. The silver now threading through James's head was exactly the same shade as hers, glinting like a halo under the waning light. A stray strand had been caught inside the glue of the lining, along with a half-smudged tear in the bottom corner, the only remaining evidence that the heart who wrote those words was once moved, laughed, loved, and lived.

The letter vibrated under Qrow's trembling fingers before dropping limply to the floor.

_I..._

_I...._

_I love you too._

_(more than you will ever know)_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So about those volume 4 premier feels....
> 
> Namely, Ironwood's uncharacteristically disheveled appearance, plus the absence of a certain silver-haired specialist in the opening credits, especially given the context and location....ergo, this utterly depressing piece....
> 
> plus Jaune's new character design omg
> 
> (This season is going to crush our hearts, isn't it?)


	4. California Dreamin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qrow tries to wash the dishes and thinks about coffee instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY. This is a work of fanfiction for entertainment. 
> 
> Inspiration: "California Dreamin'" by The Mamas and the Papas, specifically the line "If I didn't tell her/I could leave today"

He pauses before closing the door. The routine was as familiar as a favorite sweater worn to the last whispers of thread. Wake up, polish weapon, check ammo, and leave. It was much the same this time around, even with an extra splash of alcohol in the coffee, two weapons to polish, two sets of ammo, and perhaps- _just perhaps_ \- a thread that would finally be snapped after being spun for far too long.

He pauses just a second too long before stepping outside, crimson eyes closing, spine straightening against the non-existent breeze drifting past his form and into the cracks of the fractured wood frame. The room inside flickered before the door swung. Just a bed, a table, and a few mugs. Not much to look at or miss, certainly, and yet he would, more than he would ever willingly admit.

This evening, he had made the bed for the first time in probably years. Dusted the table, too, despite having to call Tai to ask what tools would be necessary for such a mundane task. Washed the dishes, too, all except the mug that still bore a pale imprint of icy pink lipstick. The pottery was blue and slightly chipped with a small smudge of food near the handle- eggs, probably, because that was the only thing she knew how to make that didn't end in a full-scale volcano. 

He placed the mug gently on the bedside table before leaving.

More than once he had put it by the stained copper sink, next to the other dirty dishes to be washed, before relegating it to its current home. The mug had been- _was still_ \- hers, the one filled with expensive coffee and real cream, not the cheap kind of instant powder Tai bought at the grocery store more than a few years ago. Qrow didn't drink coffee; why drink substitutes when alcohol existed?

Winter disagreed. She replaced the cheap booze and the cheap powder with an exotic blend of beans that smelled like lien. The rich, oaky odor of coffee permeated the apartment, dusting over the linens, the books, the furniture. It lingered, just like she did. He had tried to wash the mug with a rag to his nose to block out the smell before giving up. There were other mugs, plus three or four bowls that he could use if it was late and he needed a drinking container that wasn't moldy.

He left the still-fragrant bag of beans next to her mug before leaving. Putting a note under the bottom seemed much too clinical. He wasn't a Specialist and, besides, she would know what he was trying to say as soon as she noticed the setup. They had always promised to be as normal as they can in difficult times, to have a cup of coffee every day to remind themselves of all that was good about life, and to always stand for what was right even as darkness stretched around Remnant.

She would understand, he thought, pushing the door closed with Oz's cane.

_She would know to keep fighting after I'm gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Angsty sigh*
> 
> I need to write something happy next time.


	5. Bad Habit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter makes a field visit. Spoilers for Season 4, Episode 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY.
> 
> Inspiration: "Bad Habit" by The Kooks

Qrow mumbled in fitful bursts of sleep. Hair matted, lips blue, voice thinning to the bottom of an impossibly faint register, so unlike his usual layerings of whiskey soaked gravel. Words gushed forth in nonsensical patterns. Vowels, consonants, and syllables weaving together. The occasional sentence crashed into recognition before blending into hazy punctuations of pain.

Then the thrashing began. Hands first, fingers flexing into swinging fists against motes in the air. Arms second, muscles tensing against blows from impossibly many-limbed opponents. Torso next, flesh straining against meager bandages that burst like bubbles over an open flame.

_Hot._

_Too hot._

He was burning up.

_Need..._

_water..._

_ice...._

_Ice Queen._

Winter felt his aura ripple before depleting. That was their link, soulmates or what have you. And she Summoned, instinctively and without questioning, a flock of frost gray Nevermores hurtling towards the direction of that pain, that fear, that _resolve_ before quite literally dropping everything in her hands (some reports, central commands, and dust vials that exploded into splinters like her heart).

He was already half delirious by the time she commandeered an airship and medical team. Those specialists muttered, quite loudly, that she could have spared them a trip if she was going to do all the triaging herself. Winter spared them withering glares between platitudes for the four teenagers- Ruby and friends, whom she'll have to check for shock and minor scrapes after Qrow....

_Qrow._

Always so reckless and always so infuriatingly noble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is bit AU in the sense that one, we don't actually know if auras are connected and two, who knows if Summons can even travel across continents...but it's fun to imagine, right?
> 
> #protectQrowplz


	6. Blue Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qrow asks a question. Kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY.
> 
> Inspiration: "Blue Afternoon" by Leighton Meester

_Cold._

_So cold._

Qrow awoke to bone-grazing chills of fever. Delusions, perhaps, of icy pinpricks of consciousness....slipping....fading....disappearing. This landscape is a neon-dotted bleached white kaleidoscope that harbors only empty promises of bliss.

_Hot._

_So hot._

_Must. Find. Winter._

Hands restricting his tossings tighten into a stern grip. He knows those hands. Those fingers, slender yet strong, are familiar and he relaxes into them. The palm on his left torso bears a crooked ring of callouses between the thumb and forefinger, the legacy of two plus decades of sword use. The palm on his right torso is lightly wounded, two crescent-shaped indentations branded into the flesh in the shape of-

_Rings._

_**His** rings._

Crimson eyes snapped open. He didn't- he couldn't have- he didn't accidentally scratch her in his feverish struggles, did he? The poison coursing through his veins left him weak and groggy, but he forced his chest a few inches off the makeshift cot anyway. Where was he; what happened; how did he even get to wherever _this_ was? 

 _Blue_.

The walls are navy with ivory-white trimmings. Beside the bed, a small desk, a lamp, and a coffee mug. No photos, no memorabilia, no personal effects. The nightstand holds a small silver tray filled with antiseptic and bandages, plus a small glass that radiated the distinctive bouquet of gin and lien.

This was _her_ room. On her ship, with multiple empty cabins decorated just like this, sleek and minimal. Those were her boots kicked haphazardly in two corners, and that was her hair fanning across a makeshift blanket fort on the left side of the bed. The hand gripping his hand- the one with the rings- suddenly loosened and made its way to his exposed cheekbones in a reverent caress before reconnecting with an echoing slap.

"Do you have any idea how I worried for you? You could have _died_ , Qrow. _Died_ and left me all alone with our _lov_ -"

So hot again, the warmth sizzling through his chest and radiating from every pore. Qrow managed to croaked a nonsensical sort of happy noise and, immediately, Winter's angry gesticulations quieted to a gentle cupping of the blush spreading through his face. It wasn't a fever, but his torso was shaking with... _laughter?_

He _was_ giggling, that smug, reckless man, laughing with the kind of chest heaving, stomach shaking mirth that made her want to simultaneously kiss and smack that perfectly satisfied face. But his lips are on hers before she can even contemplate doing both at the same time and all of the anger melts into the taste and feel of him.

Still laughing, Qrow pressed one of the rings into her grip.

"Be mine, Ice Queen. You can kill me any time you'd like and I'll die a very happy man."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack, I'm sorry. 
> 
> I was aiming for a happy drabble last time and the episode 7 was just A'skjfadskjl'fan. 
> 
> Anways, here's an imagined happy ending because who wants to deal with those feels, right?


	7. Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter remembers. Implied character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY.
> 
> Inspiration: "Hello" by Adele, specifically the line "I'm in California dreaming 'bout who we used to be"

Rain fell, but Winter hardly noticed.

She didn't register much, these days.

Everything was perfunctory, at best routine and at worst smothered in ennui. Light and darkness blended together now, waves bobbing and weaving together like the waters below. Seagulls cooed above the din as tears slipped and fell towards endless blue below. The steady rhythm of the tide on the rocks echoed.

_Thrum. Thrum. Thrum._

Her pulse thundered, but Winter hardly noticed.

At least the cliffside was tranquil. Situated on one of the far corners of Patch, it faced the ocean on one side and opened to the sky above. Normally there would be a light wind scattering the oversized clouds above, but there was only a continuous throttle of gale now. _Whoosh_ , went the air battering his cloak and _whoosh_ , sank her heart to the depths below.

Unconsciously, Winter pulled the tattered crimson fabric closer, gripping as many of the ruined strips as possible with both hands. The monsoon ripped the pieces out of her fingers faster than she could hug them, but Winter clawed at the fluttering strands anyway. Perhaps if she held on tightly enough he would come back, return with the same kind of infuriatingly endearing smirk and tease her again. Maybe, just maybe, she could closed her eyes and hold her breath like she used to do on Christmas mornings as a child- perhaps he would appear behind a flurry of fluff, laughing at how gullible she was for falling for another one of his practical jokes.

_"Missin' me, Snowflake?"_

The wind taunted her with his voice. Time passed, oblivious as ever to the blood that dripped from the still-open wound in her soul. This wasn't supposed to happen; he wasn't supposed to be gone. Yet somehow everything just _was_. No warnings, no explanation. All of this just _was_ without any reason whatsoever _,_ heedless of the fact that she wanted to fight name and aura for a different outcome.

Winter stood until the faint embrace of pine and whiskey faded into whispered good-byes.

Then she gathered _their_ cloak and strode forward, towards the waiting airship, towards her weapon, towards the war that still needed fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, feels. 
> 
> You win.


	8. Your Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qrow and Winter have a competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY.
> 
> Inspiration: "Your Song" by Elton John

From behind, Qrow was just tall enough to use the top of Winter's head as a chin rest when they hugged. One arm was draped across her shoulder, looped easily over her collarbones. The other arm was around her stomach, palm pressed reverently over the faint vibrations made by a pair of tiny, kicking feet. He smiled and felt Winter do the same as she relaxed into him.

She was singing and their child was dancing to sleep.

Soft and husky, the melody reverberated through the gray-blue nursery. To their (pretend) chagrin, the only way to calm baby bird was both parents swaying to the rhythm of mother's song. Nothing else worked, though Dust knows they tried everything from reading to mock sparring in an attempt to calm the baby. It was music, and only the sound of Winter's voice, that made resting a reality.

Slightly affronted, Qrow deployed his entire musical repertoire, though nothing worked. Spoken word poetry resulted into a few half-hearted taps of encouragement. Rapping caused the first and only silent treatment since conception. Opera brought knees as well as fists. Hell, even _Qrow_ felt like protesting during yodeling. Worst of all was emo-rock, where the insistent conga line against his palm announced quite loudly that, no, little bird did not approve of this angsty, the-world-hates-me-and-I'm-better-off-alone genre.

(Winter just giggled at the various off-key squawks Qrow the person emitted.)

Not to be outdone, Qrow tried instruments, too, with similar results. It took several days to tune Weiss' old piano, too, time that could have been spent building the miniature gun-scythe in the living room instead. How was he supposed to know metronomes didn't transform into more practical crescent shapes for difficult notes? Obviously those....those...key-thingies and um...string-wingies were significantly less intuitive than weaponry; though of course Winter, as perfect as she is, could tune the damn instrument by ear.

Frustrated by the piano, the guitar, the violin, and the harp (seriously, how lucky was he to find the _one_ woman who could do all that and sing, too?), Qrow finally gave up and returned to his workbench in the living room. _Fine_ , Winter wins at music, but weaponry and combat was _his_ in this playful game of one-upmanship between parents-to-be.

Winter just grinned.

After all, she could still sing and build a mini rapier sword at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone!
> 
> And happy, maybe-funny Qrowin fluff because...well...Episode 7 and now 8.
> 
> (Also *grotesque sobbing* this is never happening in canon, is it?)


	9. Something in the Way You Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter ponders fate. Mature themes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do now own RWBY.
> 
> Inspiration: "Something in the Way You Move" by Ellie Goulding

They've had _The_  Argument so many times that she could trace its trajectory like the constellation of scars on his body. There were the slight, faint ones, faded memories of childhood scrapes and bumps, always just shy of full healing. Followed by more recent scabs, savage and angry, pulsing with a poisonous kind of energy that vibrated under her touch. In-between were the wounds that hovered between memory and history, the kind of roaring pain that cycled from full-blown amnesia to near-perfect remembrance.

She's not sure where she is in this sky of falling stars, if she was even there at all. Most of the time, there's not so much a "them" as there was an "almost-" _almost_ together, _almost_ in sync, _almost_ happily ever after.

He doesn't bother to clarify why, either, as if she had agreed to accept his self-destructive tendencies as the price for loving his light. He simply shows up in the middle of the blue-black night, drunk and desperate for _her_ , all fucks about his supposed misfortune be damned. It's always starts with alcohol and spirals from there, and sometimes he wears her down just enough and there's nothing but _him_  before he decides, yet again, to fly away in the early morning hours like a damn coward. On the one occasion he was too hungover to fly he was uncharacteristically apologetic, whispering the sweetest lies about how much he loved her, how he was going to be a better man, and how he would make the risk they were both taking worth it.

She never did find out what exactly that would entail, because that would presuppose Qrow actually had a plan besides "Fuck, fuck it all, and watch it _burn_."

And what a delirious, torturous burn it was, forever waiting for him to realize that she genuinely loved him and legitimately wanted to commit murder every time he used "semblance" as a catch-all excuse for everything they didn't have.

_Kismet._

_Fate._

_Luck._

Winter hated all of them for the scars they left on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes drabbles take hours to write...
> 
> And sometimes they take 30 minutes because, oops, one-way ticket on the angst train.


	10. Make Me (Cry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter cries. Allusions to mature themes and buckets of angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY. 
> 
> Inspiration: "Make Me (Cry)" by Noah Cyrus and Labrinth, especially the acoustic version

He doesn't belong to her.

Nor has he ever, now that this tear-stained waterfall is pouring through her vision. Sure, she could reach out and _touch_ , but every time she tried to anchor herself on **Some** part of him, he washed away like a tantalizing elixir- viseceral yet omnipotent, a part of everything yet of  _nothing_ _._

Trying to hang on to him was like wrangling an oily hurricane with her bare hands. He _gave_ in increments of information, time, and presence, but always in ephemeral washes of dew, forever evaporating before she could even register the sliver of sun crawling through the open window.

He never stayed, but, then again, she didn't, either. No point in picking  _that_ precariously-healed scab.

Puzzling, how resilient their hearts seemed to be in this competition of who could crack the least while leaving the most. 

He has the advantage both times: portions of his soul are permanently sealed; the pieces of the real him dripping through dissolve into feathers faster than she could reconstitute them.

(Apparently it's better this way, because attachments are only temporary in his broken, twisted paradigm of Semblance.)

He doesn't belong to her; not like he belongs with  _her_. 

_Death_

_-of the red-eyed corvid._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend (*waves* heyo!) and I were talking about how angst is fun to write because feels can be broken in an infinite number of ways....
> 
> And *ahem* that's how this happened.
> 
> Companion compartment to the angst train to follow.


	11. Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY. 
> 
> Inspiration: "Hurricane" by Halsey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qrow ponders. Part II of infinite variations of angst.

She's always present even she isn't. 

_Cliche._

He knows that word now, that and many other multi-syllable ones, because that's what she does, she devastes him with everything from the books scattered around the living room to the feelings tearing through his soul. _Words_. Long, short, beautiful and not, falling from her lips in an endless waterfall of noise and tears. _Words_. So many of them. All designed to crush what little sentiment he allowed himself to show in this futile exercise of getting her to care as much as he does. 

If he could see his heart, the veins would be pulsing a vibrant navy and the arteries would be pouring a brilliant crimson on the ground. She could break or mend both with a careless word or smile, though as long as they've been...whatever they are...and those words always been more crafted from carefully sanitized emotion than genuine, unguarded _feeling_. 

He could _hear_  her even though he couldn't understand what _made_ her.

She had a pulse, so she must have a heart, but how often it beat for him was an open wound he's not ready to inspect just yet. Maybe that heart lived in spite of him, because they were both unavailable in diametrically opposed ways. She owns a future where he's already mortgaged a baggage claim to rival a continent's worth of cargo ships. She's an old soul wizening in a young person's body and he's a perpetual child trapped in the graying, stooping husk waiting for those _words_ to eviscerate the hope that held the mask aloft once and for all. 

(There were moments when they pretended this distance wasn't a neon purple warning sign, moments that lasted a few seconds to maybe even a few minutes before reality had to go and drowned it all.)

But he _loved_ her-

...just his luck, right? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST and MORE ANGST 
> 
> Episode 9 broke the Qrowin feels. 
> 
> I'm sorry.


	12. White Flag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own RWBY. 
> 
> Inspiration: "White Flag" by Dido

Winter started leaving the window open the night after Beacon fell.

Futile as it was, the routine was calming in a way that additional sparring and training wasn't. The world could skew sideways in infinite loops, but there was a finite limit on sliding a piece of glass. Roughly, if her palms were bruised from practice; carefully, if studying psychological tactics; angrily, if Father or Whitley called; sadly, if yet another day passed and _he_ didn't.

Though her fingertips always brushed the gauzy curtains with hope, no matter how badly the universe continued to collapse.

So much changed since Fall- _the_ Fall, when Remnant seemed sprightly and full of optimism, too.

Before, she would have simply allowed the breeze float through the room unencumbered. Now, the air filtered through the intricate lattices of tiny white glyphs- a precautionary measure, even on one of the highest levels of the Atlas Military Campus. A full battle escort of droids paced the perimeter, along with an impressive squadron of newly minted Specialists keeping watch around their corners. The new air surveillance protocols made flying anything besides approved transport impossible- and _yet_ \- she kept the window open anyways, letting the wind beat against the door in unsteady knocks.

After all, Qrow could appear at any moment, drunk, weary, and in desperate need of a hug and a shower. That was his speciality, showing up at just the right moment, just in time for that last horde of Grimm or the final glass of scotch.

(How else was he supposed to find his way home?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I will go down with this ship/And I won't put my hands up/And surrender."  
> -the battlecry of every shipper ever
> 
> Confession: I am completely and utterly terrified of how badly the Vol. 4 finale is going to break us.


	13. Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter borrows Qrow's flask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY.
> 
> Inspiration: "Fools" by Troye Sivan

Winter brushed his forehead gently, letting Qrow's hair filter between her fingers. It was grayer than she remembered; closer in color to her silver-white than his usual shock of inky midnight. The hollows of his cheek were more angular, too, almost as if he ate only sporadic meals on the road. Judging by how freely the cape and shirt swirled in the breeze, perhaps he did not even have that, and she was proud only a smattering of her tears ghosted his collarbone.

Gently, keeping one hand on his cheek, she surveyed his other injuries- a small smattering of cuts and bruises- no broken bones, though- plus a severe gash in his abdomen. _This_ was the true price of their profession, though the physical injuries belied the psychological ones- the terror, the fear, and the constant, overwhelming urge to drown all of those in something other than reality.

She had honor; he had alcohol.

Methodically, she unscrewed the flask at his right hip (a constant companion), pouring a little bit into some clean gauze. The antiseptic was already gone- but Qrow being _Qrow_ \- the 90 proof alcohol would do until they could replenish their supplies. She unraveled the bandages one by one, wrapping and re-wrapping him with the same kind of warmth she usually reserved for young children and overeager trainees.

Qrow may be a brash, reckless fool sometimes, but he was still  _her_ fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to write something happy and tender because, well, as NinaVale pointed out, I've been kind of heavy on the feels lately. 
> 
> Oops. 
> 
> Angst is like my jam, apparently?


	14. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qrow and Winter mourn together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY. 
> 
> Inspiration: "Cold" by Jeff Williams and Casey Lee Williams 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Monty. May your vision always guide us.

They stood with hands intertwined, red cape against blue uniform, black hair against white bangs. He tilts his head towards hers at the same time she returns the gesture; together, they sync steps towards the newly erected memorial near the Founder's statute.

A thin gauze of snow is falling, blanketing the Beacon campus in a film of melting ice and tears. The crowd gathered around them rustles in waves of color- red, white, black, yellow- murmuring with the consciousness of a shared purpose.

There is a young girl with silver eyes at the beginning of this solemn procession, bearing a single red rose, placing the petals gently on the marble base. The light illuminates one of the names carved into the marble and her cape dips in respect before stepping away. The gathering sways gently as mourners approached one by one, each bearing a memento or a bouquet. Soon, the once colorless surface is covered in flashes of color, and the spirit weaving through the crowd is sad but hopeful, weighted by moments of grief and memory.

Their grip tightens when it is their turn at the dais, hands still together on two pink roses for reverence.

Today, they mourn; tomorrow, they fight again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally use the note section to share personal anecdotes, but, given the significance of today (2/1/17) as well as current events, I am making an exception. 
> 
> Please feel free to skip this if you're only here for the drabbles. You are in no way obligated to read or respond; if you do choose to respond, please keep in mind that my personal opinions are my own and not necessarily those of Monty, Rooster Teeth Productions, or any affiliated employees. 
> 
> I discovered RWBY a few years ago during a particular difficult time when I turned to, among other things, watching cartoons to cope with and escape from reality, at least for a little bit. 
> 
> Everything about the show was magical- the animation, the fight scenes, and Oh. My. Fucking. Gosh. The incredible wonder that was and still is Monty's vision. 
> 
> RWBY is what my nerd self calls a bildungsroman- a classic "growing up" story wherein the protagonist matures from childhood to adulthood while encountering challenges along the way. We're all familiar this theme, so prevalent in everything from childhood fairy tales to literary staples about catching rye or boy wizards battling maniacal evil overlords. 
> 
> What makes RWBY special is that I stumbled upon it right as I was on the cusp of "growing into" the person I am today.
> 
> I'm so fucking proud I was able to mature with such a thought-provoking series. 
> 
> What began as a humorous and brilliant animation about a little girl fighting monsters has turned into an eerily prescient take on life as we know it- the indomitable resilience of the human spirit in the face of evil, despair, discrimination, and apathy. 
> 
> We treasure these stories about heroes and monsters because they are metaphors for how we, too, can battle the status quo and make our world a better place. 
> 
> We may not have awesome scythes or, in my case, any sense of coordination at all, though, like the protagonists in RWBY, we believe in a society built on tolerance, love, and individuality instead of exclusion, hate, and conformity. 
> 
> We live in difficult times now. 
> 
> All the allegorical monsters and villains we see in RWBY have real-world parallels, though it's important to remember that heroes exist in our world, too. To paraphrase a motivational quote, the darkest nights are when stars shine the brightest, and, like the characters in RWBY, each and every one of us has the capacity and potential to make this difference. 
> 
> So thank you, Monty, from the bottom of my fangirl heart, for sharing your story and your vision and your hope with us. We all cried two years ago and we're crying today, but we promise to keep moving forward and keep fighting for all of the values you imbued within RWBY. 
> 
> With all my love,
> 
> -Lily


End file.
